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This is Rosita. I'll hit you back when I can.

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He rolls his eyes back. She straightens her leg under the table and taps the front leg of the chair with her boot, not enough to tip him straight over backwards unless his balance is really terrible, but enough to wobble.

"I don't have any more plans to die," she comments drily.

"And no cosmic fucking powers, unless you count sex. Which." She shrugs. It may have been said, though she's not offering either.

"Just plain old human, trying to get by like a human does."

He's pretty good at bonelessly sitting on things, perching--it's his MO, but that tap doesn't go unnoticed. One brow arches but he otherwise says nothing, and when Rosita's done talking then he sets the chair down properly.

Principals, and all that.

"Thank God. I never thought I'd be happy to be a fucking normo before now, but Jesus Christ. You know there's Peter Pan and Captain Hook running around here?"

"You know there's a fairy haunting the showers?" she returns, shaking her head, sipping her drink.

"It's a lot. Anyone who says otherwise is selling something."

That high-pitched, effeminate giggle is back at the mention of a fairy, a half a grin floating on Roman's face.

"It's my job to sell shit. This? This is a package I'm not sure I can push through to the rest of the board. 'Oooohhh, let's just grab people who need to do better for extremely arbitrary reasons and shove them on a boat in space, that's gonna definitely turn a profit, 'hoodeeheedeehoo.'" Another laugh.

"It's fucking bullshit. This whole thing? Bullshit."

She raises an eyebrow at first, but in the end it's so unexpected that she just laughs.

It's short, it's dry, it's a bit more like a bark, but it's laughter nonetheless.

"That's not a very wardenly stance," she points out, relaxing a bit for the first time.

Hey there, little laugh. Roman's face draws up into a half-smile, too. There we go.

"Yeah," Roman agrees, "but I'm right." And he means it.

"Just because it works doesn't mean the whole thing isn't fucking dumb."

"A lot of things work that are bullshit," she agrees.

"It just depends what side of them you're on. Participating willingly? Eh, it can be rationalized. Press ganged into it? Shut up and get with the program."

Someone's disenchanted.

That high, soft giggle is back.

"Gonna assume the admiral dragged you here against your will. M'I on the mark?"

"Considering that's literally half of the available possibilities, I'd say it would be difficult to miss," she drawls in return.

"What, he didn't you?"

"He very much the fuck did," Roman confirms, and that chair is back to getting balanced on two legs.

"Told me tough titties, I'm here anyway. Refused to go to my job for like, three months, too. You been keeping busy?"

"That's kind of what I've been getting. Tough titties."

She shakes her head, glances away for a brief moment and then back again.

"I didn't know I had a job, although apparently I got signed up for one. And no. I'm not."

"My advice?" Rositsa didn't ask for it. Roman gives it anyway with the confidence of a rich white man.

"Get the fuck out of janitorial and find the one thing you can tolerate. Holing up in your room's gonna kill you more than scrubbing toilets."

"Oh, do you really think so?" she asks, artificially awed, batting her fucking eyelashes.

Then she rolls her eyes. "Fuck you. And fuck janitorial, as long as it's being run by that cabrón."

He can't help it. The fuck you gets a grin, another little high giggle.

Yeah, they're gonna get along fine.

"Try food inventory. Marginally less grating. Which one of janitorial are you beefing with?"

"I think I can figure out how to keep myself busy, thanks."

And she doesn't feel like explaining how after spending every day working to make it to the next in a very real way, nothing here even feels real.

"The one that looks and acts like he was rejected by a 90s boy band."